The parties I want to attend
Throw champagne in your face in disgust
Then scratch your car; and
They play something smooth like honey
On the speakers. You talk to a narcissist
Until you’re ready to beat them with the bottle.
No matter your turn of phrase you somehow manage
to demean and offend the artistic upstart
who you’ve been listening to for the last hour.
You fall into the pool
And the ripples make the moon light dance
All around You. Then you stand in a dripping
Blue suit, smile, and walk out.
False cowboys take up motel rooms.
You’re in that weary state where you mumble phrases
Like: “I don’t know man” and “just give me the key”
And you want to wave goodbye
To the ugly landscape. The person at reception
Tells you the pool is closed. There’s no barrier around the pool
But you don’t want to take a chance. There’s one room left.
A cowboy stands idle under the sad yellow light
Blackened by flies and acting forlorn.
You know for a fact his mind’s on the steak he had
When he was seven and his father came home early.
Motel rooms scream secrets
But you’re too tired for degeneracy – anyway,
The mayor of a nearby town is entertaining in room 207
Dressed as a gigolo Santa in July. Never the less,
The orange heat of the dawn sun
Coming through the blinds in the desert morn
Is as welcoming as any waterfall.
Propulsion, speed, Opera
Bowling down the road in sleepless coattails
And the same gloves you slept in –
What a gorilla, devoid of inspiration
Wallowing in howling sin, desperate as a star
Ready to supernova. Arrested for jaywalking
And screaming at the police for offences
Mismanaged. Work in the morning,
Sad wailing musical pipe dream romance –
Stale coffee. Dreams written as tattoos.
Every eye is on you like Apollo: a crumbling obelisk
Cursing to the dirt, asking the earth
“Why aren’t I rich yet?” – Some kind of prayer.
It’s an aspiration,
Nay! A dream!
To destroy a hotel room
While my body is as weak as a guitar string
Left on a guitar by an 80 year old
Farmer who’s seen everything before.
But, unlike him, I’ll be dancing
Gyrating like sin, singing and drinking
(Attempting to do both at the same time)
Ready to interview a Mancunian upstart
With a fringe
And a paisley shirt
But the guy will have to call me and not give up
Because I guarantee I’ll be passed out
I think that I love Vegas
Though I have never been
It’s got the best hotels
That I have never seen.
Listening to the Replacements
Catching the bus
On blue winter evenings.
I wander if there’s a fire burning
Beyond the horizon,
And if it’s worth breaking away
With no plan
Lost in the vain determination
Thank god Belle and Sebastian came along
To save Smiths fans in English classes in the 90’s
With sexual confusion and Nick Drake jangle
Pop fusion. What is it about wispy words and
Shambolic melodies of silvery pop, like carp
In a pond, that makes the heart start like
Kerouac’s car in a book not yet read?
It’s like the rain in Cambridge, or sun in Oxford
Where Wilde is king of the homesick
And the music pours like a quick gold fix of Shakespeare.
Plaid skirts and small cars on muddy lanes
And coffee dates under grey skies with scattered planes,
She’s got hair like Tina Weymouth, she writes in French,
Her eyes are a deep brown. She speaks like jazz,
Or a Mancunian in the slums. Her mother’s a nurse.
Goddamn, I’m in love. Time to Tipp-Ex those lines of
Cynicism that flow like waves in my notebook.
He who speaks of London
as Paradise Lost
Knows about the real estate
and Knows about the cost.
I let Fred Schneider into my house
And now we’re selling discount fish
At tourist prices but I suspect my house
Is haunted now and a constant fog
Drifts through it like London and the walls
Are damp and blue. We have problems with
Seagulls and men with hooks for hands in
Yellow cagoules. Jazz is banned to my chagrin.
Tai Chi is practiced by the dirty green bottles
That house our experiments. Hausu, what a film.
Summer is busy for us but the day trips to the bay
To gather more fish are always a treat.
You looked like you were about
To smoke until I remembered
You don’t but if you did you would
Look like Jean Seberg or Anna Karina
Or another French icon because
All the fashionable icons are French.
I’m not saying I’m Godard or Truffaut
But I’m definitely saying that I’m the artist.
Although, I don’t see an uprising sprouting
In Albert Square next to the library,
Even if it’s quasi Roman design sparks
Renaissance aspirations. Such revolutionaries
Would be quietly herded into the Costa nearby
Where they can watch the statues not move.
I got off track: the scene opens with a shot
Of the Eiffel Tower.